Come Back by Sky Gilbert Page B

to me.
    Two people chatted with me. One was the bartender, and the other an elderly woman who had unfortunate silicone injections that had slipped drastically. She appeared to have two sets of cheekbones on one side. Or was that a growth? The bartender, who was shirtless, was memorable for having a large masculine chest with no nipples. Again the questions: was he once a female who had breast-reduction surgery but whose nipples had been misplaced or forgotten? It’s odd about nipples. The old adage “useless as tits on a bull” might be appropriate here. But useless or not, when we look at someone who carries all the signals of maleness — i.e., the musculature and the body hair — but is without the climactic nipple at the end of the pectoral, what are we to think? Well, useless or not, it looks very odd indeed.
    The bartender was inquiring, as bartenders do, about where I had come from and where I had been hiding. I told him (lying) that I had been hanging out in cyberspace. As I talked to him, the lady with the cantilevered face (for it certainly looked as if there were different balconies or levels jutting from it) tried to join the conversation. The bartender was dismissive of her, as if she was boring — or perhaps someone who had the habit of butting into conversations because she was in need of some undeserved sympathy. One ordinarily would think that sympathy was surely her due. But in this place certainly no one had the right to special attention, that much was clear. There could be no crying over spilt milk — the floor would have been a swimming pool of salty tears.
    So that’s all of it, my darling. I promise. And I know you have been waiting for a climax, a something, a tragedy — at the very least an occurrence. You have been imagining that something or someone would pull me back, or that I would be seized with an irresistible impulse. I’m sure you already have a theory that there is a suspicious subtext to what I say. In fact, I am prepared for this. I wish you luck. I know your disapproving nature — which is also very loving. You will not be satisfied unless you find something to worry about. And it is this worry that I have learned over the years to accept as love. Judgement, correction and warnings have taken the place of an embrace. I know, for instance, that if I were to mention (and I am going to) that Allworth pointed out the dark room at the rear of the Tranquility Spa, then you would undoubtedly take this as a dangerous sign. The alarm bells would ring.
    Well, let them.
    Allworth pointed out the backroom as a courtesy. He has a very sexual nature and it would have been rude of him to assume that simply because I am one of the very oldest creatures alive I would have had no interest in such an area. As it turns out, I don’t. But I appreciated his acknowledgement that I might have such feelings somewhere still in the mottled mess of my flesh. What interested me more than anything about this backroom — which was signified by a tattered old burgundy velvet curtain that twitched tantalizingly in the slight breeze initiated by an old ceiling fan — was that at times the bizarre creatures of the bar would actually retire there. Though none did this while I was at the bar. Later I asked Allworth if he had ever been behind the curtain. He smiled in an indulgent way and said, “But of course!” I did not find this odd. Allworth still has his own youthful body, and that’s good for him — as it is good for anyone — while it lasts. It would seem he’s enough of a sexophile to want to explore adventures that are outside cyberspace, even with partners who are nature’s rejects.
    Well, now that you know the truth — for I wouldn’t keep anything from you — I hope you will not blow the whole thing out of proportion. I hope, instead, you will try to understand that I want you to have all the facts, because you care.